


The Killing Moon

by 2am_limbo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Head Injury, Injured Sherlock, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Whump, Worried John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:05:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2am_limbo/pseuds/2am_limbo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wind was knocked out of Sherlock as he was hit over the head before he even fully turned the corner. John was half a block away when he saw Sherlock hit the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Killing Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a medical professional. I did do my research, but... Not a doctor here, so forgive me for any inaccuracies.

The wind was knocked out of Sherlock as he was hit over the head before he even fully turned the corner. John was half a block away when he saw Sherlock hit the ground.

John stopped, and his heart sank as he watched for a split second before breaking into a sprint to reach Sherlock. As he reached Sherlock’s side and dropped to his knees, Sherlock rolled on his side, sucking in deep breaths and coughing, wrapping his arm around his abdomen as he squeezed his eyes shut. He rolled a little bit further forward to rest his forehead on the point of John’s knee resting on the pavement as John pulled out his cell phone from his pocket, looking around frantically for the criminal, for _anyone_ , really.

“Jesus,” John gasped over and over as he examined Sherlock’s injuries as the emergency dispatcher took down John’s information. “Jesus,” he whispered again and hissed, feeling the blood seeping through Sherlock’s dark, beautiful curls.

“Sherlock,” John said sharply, trying his best to summon his inner soldier. He grasped Sherlock’s head with one hand, putting pressure anywhere he felt blood, unable to see the wound in the dark, and ran his other hand over the side of Sherlock’s face, his arm, his chest. He had no idea what to _do_ , he couldn’t _see._ He was a bloody army doctor and had seen more than his fair share of violence and gore, but when it came to Sherlock, nothing could have prepared him.

Sherlock groaned, resting his cheek on the cold surface of the damp sidewalk. “John,” he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut a bit tighter. John raised Sherlock’s eyelids, examining him as best as he could in the darkness without any moonlight, no street lights.

“Sherlock, stay with me,” John lightly but firmly slapped the side of Sherlock’s face. He could feel Sherlock drifting, he could feel the weakness in his limbs. “Shit. Dammit, Sherlock, stay with me!” John could hear sirens in the background, and he was growing nauseous with worry and panic. He had to stay calm. He needed to stay calm.

 

* * *

 

The paramedics didn’t have a difficult time prying Sherlock’s fingers from John’s pants leg as they flattened him out and lifted him up onto a stretcher. John, of course, did not hesitate, and quickly followed in doctor mode, hopping into the ambulance behind Sherlock and the paramedics.

The paramedics placed an oxygen mask over Sherlock’s nose and mouth, checked his pupils with a penlight, took his vitals, but Sherlock wasn’t very responsive, and was growing even less so as seconds passed.

“Mr. Holmes,” one of the paramedics said loudly and clearly. “Can you tell me what day it is?” Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, but the oxygen mask fogged as he opened and then closed his mouth, not giving a response, and his brow furrowed in confusion or strain or exhaustion, probably a mix of everything.

 

* * *

 

Days passed and Sherlock still had yet to fully wake. On a couple of occasions, Sherlock would briefly open his eyes and examine the ceiling with a faraway, unfocused gaze and then his eyes would quickly flutter closed again.

John had somehow managed to tune everything out in the hospital, focusing solely on Sherlock looking so small and frail and pale in the hospital bed, tubes coming and going from Sherlock’s body, machines beeping.

John sat there at Sherlock’s side, forehead resting next to Sherlock’s shoulder on the bed, only a faint buzzing in John’s ears.

An acute subdural hematoma, the doctor had said, from blunt force trauma. The doctors talked to John, and he understood, but he didn’t _listen_. He was lucky to be alive, they said, that he was able to reach hospital so quickly. They were able to successfully drain the blood that had pooled in his brain with very minimal damage, and he had a good prognosis, it seemed -- _of course he would, he’s Sherlock bloody Holmes. If anyone can beat the odds, it’s him_ , Lestrade had said-- but they wanted him in hospital for observation for at least another week after Sherlock woke.

Doctors and nurses came and went, machines continued to beep and hum and buzz, Mycroft and Lestrade continued to bring John tea and coffee that only went untouched -- but John only focused on Sherlock and the bed that engulfed him. John came so very close to losing Sherlock. So, so very close. Every time John closed his eyes he could only see the blood seeping from Sherlock’s head onto the pavement, Sherlock hugging his abdomen in pain, groaning. Those images quickly morphed into images from years prior when Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart’s. The blood, blood everywhere. Caked and matted in Sherlock’s hair. No pulse. No Sherlock. The feeling of sheer panic, of terror, of grief and loss. That feeling of his heart and stomach clenching and twisting and knotting. The feeling of his knees giving way, of his arms and legs growing numb from the overwhelming _everything_.

A hand on John’s shoulder. Mycroft.

“John,” he said calmly, “go home and take a shower, get some rest, change your clothes.” John blinked up at him and finally shook his head in a delayed response.

“No,” he said. “I need to be here when he wakes up.” Four days now since they had brought Sherlock into hospital. Four days of recovery and minimal consciousness.

“Let me have some of my men pick up some things for you from Baker Street then. There’s a shower down the hall in the nurse’s lounge. I’m sure they could be persuaded to let you use it.”  

John didn’t answer and rested his chin back down onto his forearm on the mattress, eyes tracing over every inch of Sherlock’s beautiful face, begging, pleading for him to wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


End file.
